


Baptism

by RPGgirl514



Category: As Above So Below (2014)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4803602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RPGgirl514/pseuds/RPGgirl514
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes more than water to wash away the stains of hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baptism

Scarlett fell into George’s arms with a strangled laugh, sucking in lungfuls of cool night air.  She was still covered in dried blood and God knew what else, but so was he, and they didn’t care.  He wrapped his arms around her and held her as tightly as he could, as if she might float away like a scrap of burning paper.

“We’re okay,” he murmured into her crusted hair.  “We made it; we’re okay.”

Scarlett turned her face toward his, her eyes more frightened than they had been the entire time they had spent in the catacombs.  George suspected adrenaline and sheer determination had kept her focused on getting out alive, and just now it had all come crashing down.  Tears carved rivulets through the gore on her face.

George drew away and slipped his hand into hers.  They set off for the hotel they had checked into barely a day ago -- it felt like years.  They hadn’t planned on spending much time in the hotel, so it was the sort of place that when they walked into the lobby, looking like they had just emerged from hell, the clerk glanced their way but said nothing.

George released Scarlett’s hand to engage the deadbolt and door chain, and they kicked off their shoes and dumped the few belongings that had survived their journey by the door.  Wordlessly he led her into the bathroom.

George turned on the shower and stripped off his shirt.  Filth coated his forearms, marking where his sleeves had stopped.  He reached out, tipping Scarlett’s face up with his hand.  He searched her eyes with his, asking permission.  She inhaled, exhaled -- then raised her arms above her head.  George slipped his fingers under the hem and pulled the stained garment over her head, gently unsticking the fabric where it clung to the sticky film as red as her name.  The brush of his fingers against her stomach seemed to wake Scarlett up.

“Oh God, get it off,” she muttered, fumbling for the button and zipper of her trousers.  George stripped off his own jeans and boxers in one motion, peeling off his sodden socks and tossing them towards the doorway.  Scarlett’s bra flew past him in the same direction and then she was stepping past the patterned curtain.  George snatched up a bar of soap by the sink and stepped in behind her.

Another time, it might have been sensual.  In fact, George remembered a similar situation being a lot more fun in Turkey.  Now Scarlett was scrubbing her pale skin and clawing at her hair with barely restrained panic.  George put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer, running the bar of soap over her skin in calming circles.  Scarlett trembled against him.

When he and Danny were little, his mom had sung “My Bonny Lies Over the Ocean” to them before tucking them into bed.  It was worth a try.  He hummed the song, more slowly than its usual tempo, into Scarlett’s ear.  She could feel the depth of his voice where her shoulder blade pressed against his sternum, and it calmed her.  His voice caught on the A4, and he went still, the bar of soap pausing in its lather of her hair.

“Let me,” Scarlett whispered, reaching up to take the soap from him.  She followed the path of the soap with her other hand, tracing avenues over George’s body, memories of Turkey vivid and exhilarating.  The dynamic of the enclosed space had changed from a baptism of sorts, borne of fear, to one of vitality and affirmation of life.  Just like in the abyss, everything was turned on its head.

As below, so above.  Baptism by fire, baptism through water.

They crashed together just as they had the first time, months ago in Turkey, lips and hands and bodies straining to be closer to each other.  They were two objects striving to occupy the same space, the Pauli Exclusion Principle be damned.  The soap clattered to the floor of the stall.  Soapy water ran into their eyes, stinging.  They let the water wash over them, baptizing them, sanctifying them, washing away the stains of hell.

Scarlett let her mouth trail down the side of George’s neck, to the place where she’d seen his life course over her fingers, hot and red, though there wasn’t even a trace of a scar.  She’d almost lost him to her own hubris twice, and yet here he was, clutching her like she was the only thing anchoring him to the world of the living, an assurance they weren’t still trapped in the nightmare.

This was where George Ellis fell in love with Scarlett Marlowe, in the purest form.  He fell in love with her in Turkey, for the fire in her brown eyes and her thirst for knowledge, no matter how obscure, and her obsession with alchemy and her clever mind and nimble fingers.  Here, in Paris, George fell in love with her again, for her bravery and perseverance and the look on her face when she’d found the Stone, the culmination of her life’s work, and for the way she was kissing him like their lives depended on it.

Because yeah, she had left him in a Turkish prison, but when George was bleeding out in the catacombs below Paris, she had gone back through the horrors twice again to save him.  Scarlett succeeded where George had failed, when his little brother was trapped under the water -- when Scarlett said she was going to get help, she came back.  That was redemption enough.

The bells tolled as the hour struck, muffled yet majestic as they pealed across the city.  George raised his head just long enough to count the hour -- four o’clock.  “The bells,” he said, a slow grin spreading over his face.

Scarlett smiled back.  “ _Your_ bells,” she said, “or near enough.”

Later, they fell into bed spent and clean, curled around each other protectively.  George rested his forehead against hers and slipped an arm over her hip.  “What are we doing, Scarlett?”

She nuzzled her face into the hollow of his neck.  “My mother used to say everything looks better in the morning.”

“Okay, and then?”

She opened her eyes, but all she could see was the dark curve of his collarbone.  “We’ll decide where to go from there.  I’d like it if you came back to London with me, only if for a little while, though I’m not sure there are enough old landmarks for you to fix.  We English keep our country in tiptop shape, after all.”  She felt him smile against her hair.

“It can’t be worse than Turkey,” he said.  “Or Paris.”

Scarlett giggled, a short descending triad, and George knew they were going to be okay.

 


End file.
